The Curtain Falls: A Victorian Novel

The Curtain Falls

Chapter 1

I sensed something different about the classroom as soon as I walked in.

Good morning, Olivia.

I nodded to Mr. Pickering and approached my little school-desk. What awaited me was quite curious. I slid into my seat, regarding the contraption like a mouse inspecting a trap. A vertical metal pipe was bolted to a small horizontal platform. A pair of mirrored lenses balanced upon the platform.

I have a special experiment planned today, Mr. Pickering explained.

My tutor placed a silver tray on the desk beside me. Two flowers, one a bud and the other in full bloom, were ripped from their stems and lay upon the tray. The instrument of torture used to sever them, a thin penknife, lay gleaming beside the crushed petals.

Sir, you picked my flowers.

He positioned himself before the large tilting chalkboard in the front of the room. With his peering black eyes and spindly legs, he resembled a large bird.

I mentioned last week we would continue our botany studies by examining real specimens, he said matter-of-factly. One of your helpful servants brought me examples from the conservatory.

Examples, I echoed. My roses sliced from their stems as if they’d been beheaded. I thought you meant we would be in my conservatory.

No need for that.

He scratched the back of his neck and opened the Gray’s Lessons in Botany text-book to a bookmarked page.

Ah, here we are. He licked his forefinger. The instrument upon your desk is a microscope. You will use it during today’s lesson of botanical dissection.

Dissection? Mr. Pickering, can we not –

Olivia, he interrupted. This is how you view the parts of a flower. You cannot understand anything unless you see it from the inside.

This was more upsetting than anything either Mr. Pickering or my previous tutors planned. I wanted nothing more than to gather my flowers and leave the classroom.

May I remind you, Olivia, that your mother supports my teaching methods. She chose me specifically to suit your educational needs.

The thought of Mama’s displeased frown made me sigh. She would agree with my tutor and want me to go through with this experiment.

All right, I whispered.

Indeed. He peered at the page, then at me. Pick up the penknife. We will first dissect the rosebud.

The bud’s wrapped petals were like a baby’s swaddling blankets protecting it. I murmured a silent apology to it.

Olivia. Pick up the knife.

The tiny blade winked and flashed. Following Mr. Pickering’s instructions, I held the rosebud in my left hand and sliced it clean through with a vertical cut from the tip of its severed stem up through its red velvet petals. It was astonishing how easy it was to dismantle the little flower. Two perfect globular halves exposed the delicate interior.

Excellent work. You are quite the natural. Take a look at this diagram and identify the parts.

A gorgeous lithograph of a blooming crimson rose splayed across the left-hand page, as pretty as a Medieval tapestry. On the right-hand page was a black and white drawing of the inside of the rose, stark and technical. What did I care for the stigma, the anther, the ovule or the filament? My rose was slain, and I cut it.

The section of stem closest to the base of the flower is called the pedical.

I ignored the diagram and turned my attention to the lithograph. It was so alive and fertile with beauty.

Olivia, do pay attention. Next week is your examination.

I picked up one of the mirrors and placed it in the center of the book where the pages met, so the glass reflected the lithograph. Two roses appeared in full view, obstructing the dissection diagram.

Olivia!

I straightened, pushing the book away from me. Mr. Pickering. I apologize. I cannot do this.

He peered down at me in such a bird-like fashion I expected him to squawk. This is nothing but a disssection lesson. It should not trouble you.

I struggled to make him understand. I know, sir. We could -

We could what? he demanded.

We could go to the conservatory, I suggested. I grow hundreds of flowers, Mr. Pickering. I know their botanical names.

Olivia, we discussed botanical names. Dissection is the next part of the lesson.

I squirmed in my seat. Can we not skip it?

Do you see the book in front of you? The diagram?

Sir, I do not wish to learn about flowers from a book.

He plunked his pointer right in the center of the book, creaking the spine. Then he whapped the rose lithograph so hard the petals would wilt.

My classroom is here, he snapped. Mr. Redoute didn’t spend years drawing roses for us to ignore them. You do realize real plants have insects?

Yes, some do.

Oh, and the dirt. Plants are filthy. He picked imaginary specks of dust from his jacket and straightened his waistcoat.

I sighed. My roses are beautiful, Mr. Pickering. If you could see them.

We’re not going to, the tutor sneered. I have had enough.

He eyed me severely, causing me to avert my gaze. Then he swiveled towards the clock on the fireplace mantel.

We are finished.

He shoved his papers into his satchel and strutted right to the door. He opened it and left the room without another word. His departure surprised me, as it was unlike him to not at least wish me a good day.

I scooped up the flowers and dunked their blossoms into a nearby vase. They would last a few days under my care. For the rosebud, I couldn’t repair it or bring it back to life. How I dearly wished I could.

Olivia?

The botanical book still lay open, the lithograph rose as beautiful as the ones in my conservatory. I touched the petals and traced my hand down the thorny stem.

Olivia, did you hear me?

Mama called from the front hall. It was time to go. I left the second-floor classrom, crossed the little hall and stepped down to the landing. A large window was festooned with greenery, and I stopped to greet the trailing vines and sprouted leaves.

I will water you later, I murmured.

Olivia, we are waiting.

Mama and Mr. Pickering stood before the front door. I lifted my dress and made my way downstairs. Mr. Pickering clutched his cane, using it to gesture wildly.

… cannot be tolerated! he said, exasperated. In all my years, I have never beheld such reluctance to secure an education. Does she not know why she needs proper training?

Mama nodded vigorously, her foot tapping beneath her black mourning skirts. As soon as I stepped off the last stair, she turned her hardened blue eyes upon me.

Olivia, Mr. Pickering says you refuse to proceed with your dissection lesson.

I bowed my head. I am sorry, Mama. I did not wish to cut my flowers.

My dear, are you a tutor? At my silence, she repeated the question. Well, are you?

No, ma’am.

Then you must listen to Mr. Pickering.

Cutting flowers is how you dissect them, my tutor grumbled. Mrs. Nichols, I believe I have an excellent solution.

Indeed. Mama smiled warmly. Let us discuss it over luncheon.

What was there to discuss? I followed them into the dining room, where once our dining table held dinner parties of such fine renown they were announced in Portland newspapers. But my stepfather was gone and so were the parties. I took a seat opposite Mama. Mr. Nichols’s empty chair sat at the end of the table.

Mr. Pickering ate my favorite cucumber tea sandwiches and drank the tea Mama bought for me. Mama pushed back her plate, lifted her white damask napkin to her lips and pressed it against her mouth. Mr. Pickering downed the rest of his tea, then motioned for more. As the servant poured it, he turned to Mama.

A delightful luncheon, he gushed. Why, I do believe you have the best kitchen staff in Portland.

My late husband was particular about such details. A good master is concerned with the lowest kitchen maid.

You are quite right, Mrs. Nichols. Mr. Pickering put his hand to his heart in an exaggerated display of sympathy. May I offer my condolences for his loss. Portland is not as bright a city without Mr. Nichols’s excellent leadership.

I thank you, sir.

The house is a lot quieter, I said. Mr. Nichols was a gentleman of many admirers.

Mr. Pickering frowned. A good man to be a paternal role model, he quipped. Every girl should be so lucky. It’s a wonder you do not reflect his good values in your character and conduct.

Oh, Mr. Pickering, I do try. I sighed. Mama has given me such guidance, and I wish to be better.

Then do it, Mama said curtly. You must not only utter your desire, Olivia. You must also act upon it, with a complete commitment.

Yes, Mama.

Both of them regarded me with an equal amount of disdainful disappointment. At length, Mr. Pickering drained the final drops of his teacup and addressed my mother again.

If I may speak plainly, Mrs. Nichols.

You may, sir.

Thank you. He adjusted his cravat, clearing his throat. I have been pondering an idea for several weeks, and I think it best to bring it to your attention.

I am listening.

He turned to me. Olivia, you are a young lady of beauty with a fortunate surname. You will be eligible for an affluent matrimonial match when you make your societal debut.

I blushed. When my older stepsister Cecilia made her debut, it was the loveliest time of her life. A whirlwind six months of balls, parties, yachting excursions, dinner parties, and cotillions. Surrounded by handsome young gentlemen. Soon, Portland society would greet me in the same grand fashion. I could not wait!

So, Mr. Pickering continued, it is of my professional opinion that you delay your debut for another year.

Delay, sir? Mama said. Olivia’s eighteenth birthday is this coming March, so she will be the right age for the season.

It is not a question of age, Mrs. Nichols.

Then, what is your reasoning?

A lack of education, the tutor replied. My expertise extends only so far. Therefore, I suggest a year of proper finishing school. I happen to know the headmistress of one in Lenox, Massachusetts, should you need to contact her.

What is finishing school, Mama? I asked.

My dear girl, you don’t know what it is? Mr. Pickering chuckled. You see, Mrs. Nichols, she is uneducated upon the simplest matters.

Quite right. Mama frowned. I shall keep your suggestion in mind, Mr. Pickering. It is an excellent one to ponder.

He leaned forward. May I remind you, good madam, I am the fourth tutor hired to teach your daughter. If Olivia hopes to secure a decent match, then I must recommend a more strict course of action.

Mama tapped her teaspoon against her saucer.

Your suggestion will be taken into account, she said. I thank you for bringing it to my attention. Your company has been a pleasure.

She pushed her chair back and stood from the table. Mr. Pickering gave a final dab of the napkin to his lips, then rose to his feet. As I followed suit, Mr. Pickering went over to Mama and pressed his hand in hers.

Madam, your hospitality is unsurpassed, he said. You have become a great asset to this city.

Thank you. She nodded. My daughter will see you out. Do come again, for you are always welcome.

A good day to you, then. He looked at me. Shall we?

I accepted his arm, and together we walked from the dining room out into the front hall. The butler had retrieved my tutor’s coat and hat, so he placed his outer things on. Yet before he left, Mr. Pickering turned to me.

It is a pity, Olivia. You are more beautiful than your stepsister was, and yet you will not make a good match at all.

I stared at him. Why won’t I, Mr. Pickering?

You are not Mr. Nichols’s real daughter. He sighed. I have tried to compensate for your lack of good parentage, but there is not a man in Portland who can overlook it.

I bit my lip. Please do not send me to finishing school. I will try to do better.

My dear girl. He sounded sympathetic. There is nothing you can do.

The butler opened the front door for him, and he stepped out into the rain.

Chapter 2

After the door clicked closed, the house was quiet. I felt full and sorrowed, like a cloud about to rain. If Mr. Nichols was my real father, then I’d have a debut like Cecilia, so magical and ethereal. A living dream.

Roses wilted in a china vase on the hall table. These lovely flowers lived only so long, before they began to die. It was time to fetch more, to bring more beauty to each corner of this empty old house.

I slipped past the dining room, hoping Mama would not emerge and ask for me. I stole down the hall, then turned the doorknob to the music room and crept inside. The back part of Nichols Hall faced Portland’s East End and the deep harbor at the base of Bramhall Hill. I crossed the music room, with its fine array of instruments and sheet music. My stepfather was an amateur pianist and spent many hours practicing in here. He played for the last time the day before he died. He wasn’t my real father, though he was the only father I’d known.

A small key hung on a ribbon around doorknob. It was a thick rusty iron, hanging from a coppery colored ribbon. I inserted it into the lock, and stepped into a glass and iron wonderland. The domed ceiling vaulted high above my head. I inhaled the earthy odors, like entering a jungly forest of botanical wonders. From a peg on the wall, I took my linen apron and slipped it over my head. Aviary cages hung inside the door, canaries chirping. Butterflies and bees buzzed about my lovely indoor garden. Benches, tables, and shelves were festooned with plants of all kinds, kept alive by my careful attention.

These flowers, vines, and leaves were my companions. They nodded politely to me as I passed by, bending blooms towards me. Fiery tiger lily heads streaked with crimson and sienna. Amaryllis blooms as wide as my hands, their weight bending their green stalks. Sunflowers, still as bright as the ones outside in September. Chrysanthemums and marigolds with puffy pumpkin and golden heads.

Beyond Bramhall Hill the sky was clouded and colorless against the ochre-leaved trees. Rain flattened the brown grass and pattered against the thick curved glass of the conservatory roof. Yet inside here, I could keep spring alive. It was my own private magic. I reached in my apron pocket and pulled out my little copy of A Mid-Summer Night’s Dream.

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows. I inhaled the herby scent from the little pot of thyme on the bench. Where oxslips and the nodding violet grows. Why hello there, my shy violet.

Purple blooms were tucked beneath the larger pansies and petunias. Like a tiny girl peeking from her mother’s petaled skirts.

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine.

Woodsy vines grew up the trellises and ladders, twining and intertwining above my head. Over-canopied with their luscious greenery, like a glen with a leafy ceiling.

With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine. Yes, I have oh so many roses.

I paused in front of a miniature rose-bush. The buds were the color of terra-cotta tiles on an Italian villa, a deep bronzed copper. I held one cupped in my hands like a baby bird, touching the softness of its petals. When I tucked it into my long red hair, I couldn’t tell where the auburn strands ended and the petals began.

There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight.

My reflection appeared in the thick glass wall. A girl with long wavy hair the color of an autumn sunset. Eyes of blue, the morning’s hue. My dress was as green as a summer forest. Surrounded by flowers, at the center of a botanical portrait.

Titania, I breathed. Queen of the fairies.

In my floral world, I was a star upon the stage.

Olivia? Olivia!

Would Mama always interrupt me? I closed my book of Shakespeare and hurried down the leafy conservatory aisle until I reached the door. I locked it, hung the key on the doorknob, and stepped out into the music room. Mama appeared in the opposite doorway, holding an envelope. I curtsied to her.

Remove your apron, Olivia. You are not a servant.

I untied it from behind me and held it in my arms. It wasn’t until I had returned that she nodded, her mouth upturned into an approving smile. The envelope opened by a letter opener, its edge slit open and frayed.

The postman arrived, drenched to the skin, she explained. He delivered a special letter, and its contents concern us both.

Who is it from?

Mother smiled. We shall soon see Mrs. Sloane and her new husband.

Cecilia had written! Mama reached into the envelope and pulled out the letter. She unfolded it and crackled it open. Then she read it to me, enunciating each word well.

Mama folded the letter. Well, I shall write and tell them to come at once. I wouldn’t want to delay their trip to New York.

Oh, when can we go on a European holiday? I wondered aloud. I would love to see the gardens in England.

Olivia.

I saw an engraving of one once. I sighed. It looked so beautiful.

Olivia, Mama snapped.

My daydream vanished. Yes, Mama?

She stuffed Cecilia’s letter back into the envelope. My dear, you are a sweet and lovely girl. But you must not let your fancies consume your thoughts. How can you expect to make a real life if you are caught up in illusions?

I’m sorry, Mama, I said. I cannot help it. I want so many things.

Mama looked at me, her eyes pitying.

Olivia, you were there when Mr. Pickering suggested finishing school. You would learn manners, decorum, and propriety. It is a valid option.

I wasn’t so sure.

Yet, I would not have my spring debut. I walked towards her, and she handed me the letter. Cecilia had one, and I want one as well.

Mama shook her head. We’ve discussed this, Olivia. Your prospects are not as good as Cecilia’s. Her father had the means to provide for her debut. They are exorbitant affairs.

Then, I shall not have one?

You may. Though Mama